


Don't know what I want, but I know how to get it

by Sharksdontsleep



Category: Worried About the Boy
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharksdontsleep/pseuds/Sharksdontsleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk and his mum. The day after.</p><p>This is based STRICTLY on the made-for-TV movie and has NO BEARING on the truth. If you arrived here via self-Google, and this fic offends you, please please please let me know (not via litigation) and I will remove it. ALL FICTION. No profit is being made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't know what I want, but I know how to get it

The day after, she lets him sleep a little later, cooks him a fry-up, steeps a strong cup of tea. He’s still in his robe when he pads into the kitchen, scoots a chair out from the table, downs his tea without saying anything.

“Your friend find himself home alright?” she says.

He hunches, slightly, cups his hands around his mug. “He’ll be fine,” he says.

She puts his plate in front him, bacon, beans, two eggs, yolks just this side of runny, a few triangles of buttered toast. He’s a good eater, her son, is beginning to carry a little weight around his middle the way his father did. It pleases her to see him fed, after those lean punk years.

Fashion, he’d said. Nonsense is more like.

He tucks in, scrapes his fork against the plate, shovels in a mouthful of eggs. She fixes herself another cup of tea, lights a cigarette, blows smoke over her shoulder toward the open window.

She waits. He’ll talk, in his time.

“My friend,” he says. “George.”

He gulps a little when he says the name, as if he’s admitted something he shouldn’t.

“George,” she says. “He seemed a nice one.”

“He is,” her son says. “Sensitive, is all.”

She takes a sip of tea, examines him, his new white hair, the circles under his eyes, over the rim of her cup.

He has her nose, the shape of her face, but he got his father’s coloring, through and through, looks like the photos of him at this age.

But his father had done a runner, and he doesn’t seem to want to leave, even though living in the city would be better for his career, such as it is. He stays, and she feeds him, and presses his father’s shirts, so he can wear them with his city friends. Fashion, she thinks. Fashion comes and goes, but he stays.

“Is he now,” she says, finally. “Makes you a good friend, then. Taking him in. It’s a long walk from the city. And a long walk back.”

He resumes scooping food into his mouth.

“I’m sorry he woke you. He can be - boys like that can be dramatic.”

She sips her tea, watches various emotions flicker on his face. He’d always been like his father, who couldn’t hide his fear or disgust or anything else. Or maybe she’s just learned to look.

“Do you know many boys like that?” she says, then draws long on her cigarette, focuses on the ember glowing bright orange.

When she looks at him, he looks a bit smacked, mouth open.

“From your music, I mean,” she says.

“Yes,” he says, hurriedly. “He’s a singer too. We have that in common.”

“Ah,” she says.

“I’d been helping him. With his singing. He … helped me do this,” he says, gesturing to his new hair, which looks straw-like, still held in place with all the wax he uses.

“I should ring him and complain,” she says. “Report him for running a back-alley hair salon.”

“It was my idea,” he says, a long sip of tea later. “George just went along with it.”

“Of course,” she says. “I don’t blame him. ‘Sides, I’m getting use to it. Even if it was a surprise.”

“You’d forgive him, then,” he says. There’s an edge of a smile, perhaps.

“Bless,” she says, and takes his hand. He grips her hand, and he’s strong, her boy, her son.

She doesn’t like his white hair, or his music or the friends he spends his time with, but she loves him, has no choice in the matter. He’s her _son_ , and she hates to see him break anyone’s heart, particularly his own.


End file.
